The Bëlvingær
by Anguigena
Summary: During an attack on the Hogwart's Express, eight children are thrown into a land which most thought only a myth.


**Title**: The Bëlvingær

**Author**: S. C. C. Worthing

**Rating**: PG-13 for Violence and Language

**Category**: Drama/Action/Adventure

**Summary**: Harry, finally beginning his rather dreaded sixth year, sits in a Hogwarts compartment with the other two of the famed Golden Trio, along with four others. When Draco Malfoy comes to knock, they expected a fight. They did not expect to find the train ambushed by Death Eaters, or the horrifying situation that flung the eight of them off into a unknown land with nothing but their wands and no way of getting back.

**Spoilers**: PS/SS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, QttA, FBaWtFT

**Disclaimers**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes**: This is an old, unbeta'd piece of fiction I wrote when I was bored. If the readers wish it, I shall continue it; if not, then it shall be abandoned.

**The Bëlvingær**

_Chapter One – Welcome to Hell_

Life is not a process of mere predictable cause and effect.  
Both cause and effect are aspects of something greater than either.  
--- LAURENS van der POST (1906 – 1996). "Points of Total Return,"   
_Jung and the Story of Our Time_, 1975

If one were to look out at the Scotland countryside, one would have noticed the vast rolling green hills and scarce spread of dingy trees. However, if one had that certain ability within themselves to wield a long pointy stick known as a wand and chant words such as "Wingardium Leviosa!", one would also have seen the miles of train track covering the beautiful Scottish wilderness, and the heavyset crimson train chugging along at a comfortable rate. You would have seen the vast number of cars that followed the red engine, and if you had looked closer, you would have seen the number of students chattering without a care in the world inside these compartments. And if you had looked at the very last compartment, you would have seen five students, four boys and a girl, staring at each other in uncomfortable silence.

The four wizards and the witch (for that is what they were – student magic-users going on their yearly trip to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry) were glancing at the sliding compartment door uneasily. On one side, sandwiched between two boys, the bushy-haired witch with curls of brown and eyes of tawny sat stiff and proper, keen glints of intelligence between a hormonal world. Her posture suggested one of great knowledge and logic, unafraid to use them against you and fiercely loyal. This was Hermione Granger, supposedly the smartest witch Hogwarts had ever seen, and best friends of the two boys on either side of her.

The first was a gangly red-head, keen blue eyes with a spattering of freckles and the look upon his face of one hot-tempered, as most redheads tended to be. His name was Ronald Weasley, and he had the look of a teenager going through not one growth spurt, but many. All paws and tails and wagging limbs. With the awkwardness that most adolescents tended to possess, this Ron Weasley was draped carelessly over one compartment seat, though his hand twitched ever so slightly to a thin wooden stick carried in his back pocket.

The other boy, a little scrawny thing with too-large clothes that looked as though they had been through hell and back, was watching the two other members of the compartment in front of him with luminous emerald eyes that beguiled the watcher into thinking of innocence. His lightning-adorned brow was frowning, and the milk-bottle glasses that covered the true incandescence of his eyes slipped down his nose in a disapproving manner. This tiny teenager that probably would never hit his growth spurt was known as Harry potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, also known as The-Boy-Who-Lived, Dumbledore's Golden Boy, and other such ridiculous statements.

Now, the other two were watching back with the same, if not possibly more, trepidation at the reactions of the three others (known as the Golden Trio to most of the world). The one on Harry's immediate sight was Neville Longbottom, a pudgy boy with a nervous expression on his face, clutching a croaking green toad that he still hadn't gotten rid of. He was possibly the worst potions student Hogwarts had ever had, and his stuttering, shy ways didn't help at all. But he, perhaps, was the most brilliant herbology expert the Gryffindors had ever seen, including Professor Sprout herself.

The last person in this compartment of nervousness was an adolescent of dark skin and hair, quiet nature yet outstanding insight, Dean Thomas. A fair spellcaster and slow to judge, he was the quiet one that never spoke unless spoken to, the one that could draw things as if they were a photograph. Dean, however, was at a dilemma. He was at odds with the rest of the compartment for his disloyalty towards Harry some time ago, and his shy nature didn't help things much. He rather wished that Seamus (his best friend that left the compartment a few hours ago) would return, and set things off with his exuberantly boisterous nature. Unfortunately, he had been missing an hour ago, and had not returned.

And as if the devil had heard Dean's wishes, the compartment door slid open. But, pity for Dean and the rest of the students, it was not Seamus Finnegan. Instead, an arrogant aristocrat stood in the doorway, pale skin and pointed chin and finely chiselled features, with narrowed grey eyes and a sneer upon his face. This was Draco Malfoy, enemy of Gryffindors everywhere and the supposed "Prince of Slytherin." Dean really wished he had left with Seamus right now, even if Seamus was just going to get a random snog.

"Well, if it isn't the Potty, the Weasel, and the Mudblood…" The dark-skinned Dean obviously hoped that the ferrety-looking boy would not notice him, and concentrate on the other four members of the compartment, but his wish was once again heard by the devil. "…and look, you have baggage with you as well."

The brown-haired "Mudblood" placed a restraining hand on the "Weasel's" shoulder, and the pale boy's lips curled in disdain. The redhead was obviously going to try and hit him. He turned to the bespectacled boy glaring at him with vivid green eyes magnified by badly-shaped glasses, and his lips curled in a smirk instead. "So, Potter, how's your vacation been? I heard you got a _dog_, Potter. But he ran away and got killed like the gutter–"

At this point, the boiling rage the wizarding saviour had felt for the past month overwhelmed him, and he lunged despite Hermione's warning gasp. Before anyone had even blinked, the black-haired wizard has his wand at Malfoy's throat, snarling. "Don't you _ever_ talk like that you little–"

The explosion that hit the train knocked the rest of his words back into his tongue, and Harry swallowed them as the train screeched the emergency brakes ominously. The lights flickered briefly, and the six Gryffindors, with one paler-looking Draco Malfoy stood up, balancing precariously as the train floor shook with the explosions that rocked the car. "What – what the hell's happening!"

One of them glanced outside, and Harry saw. Black shapes were running with wands raised, grinning white masks in the air, shooting beams of green light – and that horrible, grinning skull rose in a macabre mist of emerald light, the snake curling about its mouth. "Death Eaters…" Everyone paled, and across from them, another compartment door opened.

Su Li (Harry knew because he had literally smacked into her while running to catch up with the train an hour or so back), and Lisa Turpin (he had seen her blonde head sometimes; she was one of those people that never asked you for anything, yet she stuck in his mind) were both peering out of the only other compartment in the last car of the Hogwarts Express. Both were darting wary glances around, and Harry noticed the wands in their hands, raised and ready. Turpin's mouth was in a thin line reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. "What's going on?"

"Death Eaters–" Another explosion rattled the compartment and Harry scrambled sideways as a part of the roof broke off and clattered on the ground, cracking into tiny plaster pieces. And as the eight of them grabbed each other in their haste to balance from yet another shriek of burning air, Harry's scar burned. "_He's here…_"

Hermione's and Ron's eyes widened, and they sucked in their breaths even as Draco Malfoy grabbed the edge of Hermione's shirt in panic.

The pain trickled through like a waterfall and Harry's eyes stung from the pressure. Fucking hell I am not going down without a fight… he gritted his teeth and stood, even as the door connecting the cars burst open. For a second, Harry's eyes shifted and he viewed the world from Voldemort's: eight scared little children desperately holding their puny wands against him. No matter, they would die anyway. It was Potter he wanted…

No! Harry broke free and he saw the great snake-like visage of Lord Voldemort grinning with thin grey lips and burning crimson eyes. The black cloak wrapped around him like a shroud and the greatest Dark Lord since medieval times raised his wand, hissing in sibilant pleasure. He needed to do something, anything! He couldn't just die!

"…Potter, it is pitiful that you would die this way, surrounded by your feeble friends…"

Damn it but what could he do! He was nothing against Voldemort! Harry's mind turned desperately, and Voldemort smirked viciously, as if knowing what Harry was thinking. Then he caught sight of Malfoy, and his lips curled into a snarl. "You, the Malfoy brat. Dared to say no, did you? Tried to join them?" The Dark Lord gestured to Harry and the rest of the Gryffindors. "For that, you can die first."

What was he talking about? The Malfoy brat? Was he implying that… Malfoy hadn't joined the Death Eaters? That he had _refused_? Harry's mind turned over in confusion even as Voldemort levelled his wand at the pale boy. Perhaps there was hope for the snivelling ferret, but what was he thinking – a person was about to die! Where was Dumbledore when you needed him?

But Harry was feeling a strange kind of numb now, and he knew something would happen today, whether Voldemort would die or he would die, it would not matter for the strange ice that had frozen his mind left him cool and impervious. Something was going to change, and he would let it, let it with the instincts that were veering inside of him, and he felt cool and all he would do would let Voldemort rise against him, and he would rise too.

When the sickly green light flitted through the end of a yew wand, Harry flicked his own in numbness and waited. Waited as the jet of golden light that flowed from his own wand hit the avada kedavra of Voldemort's, and watched as the strange effect blew them apart in a cacophony of white light, spreading throughout the small hallway in a silent wave of power, and watched as Voldemort shriek in agony and disappear, while the rest cried out and fell into the blackness.

.&.

It was hours before anyone had woken, for the sun had sunk quite low, and that was the first thing they noticed as they woke from the unconscious slumber induced by blinding power. The eight woke simultaneously, with throbbing heads and the feeling as though they should be dead. The blinding white light of their departure was all they could remember of their previous, genteel life and the memories of an age-old stone castle, but now they were in a foreign land, of gusty wind and fire-brimmed trees, a mythical place known only in story books. But none of them knew this now, for they were still dizzy and confused, without a thought to where they were and what had transpired.

Harry woke first, clutching a hand and attempting to remember the dazed events that had led to his being stuck in a multitude of green fuzz. His glasses were gone and he was quite blind without them – and blind with them as well, for his eyesight and never quite fixed. All he could recall was the blinding white light as two adversaries duelled, and then the pain of displacement – the wrenching of flesh and bone in crude apparition. He knew he was not in his former land, not on his way to Hogwarts, and knew that the soft stirring of grass was not where he should be. But he had to look out first, for his duty was to protect the others, even if he did not particularly conciliate with them.

The others where strewn across spring grass, stirring with the groans of those quite disagreeable, wincing with phantom bruises and slowly rising with a cautious air. None of them knew there whereabouts – except for Draco Malfoy, who stared dazed at the pristine blue stream ahead of them close to wonder. It was then the seven clueless turned to his enlightened face and asked him in silent unison, for even Hermione was bewildered in this strange turn of events. "The Bëlvingær…"

It was only breathed in the tiniest of whispers, but three of the stranded gasped in the frightened understanding of those who had come to a place they had heard and feared, but had never encountered. Neville was stammering with the tiny chubby flaps of his arms wobbling in tremors of fear, and Ron could have gazed upon the trees with awe, yet his eyes were tampered with the fear of the unknown. However, it was Hermione's reaction who had startled Harry the most, for her eyes cried out in fear and pink lips turned in silent helplessness. And she said uttered two words that changed the course of events, leading them on drastic paths and perhaps saved them all, yet condemned them to a civility of hardships. "No magic."

The confused four – Harry, Dean, Su, and Lisa – glanced sharply, wondering what this could mean. Draco elaborated with a gulp of his pale face, the unusually insufferable Slytherin looking something close to despair. "No magic." His voice was a hushed whisper. "The Bëlvingær… no magic. I thought this was a myth, a legend! A fable meant to scare away bad children. Not… not real." The others glared at him impatiently, and he twitched with a hint of his old disagreeable persona, a frightened sneer curling his face. The could see his sneers and his malice were defensive, and underneath the hatred in silver eyes, he was as frightened and wondering as the rest of them. "The Bëlvingær is supposed mythology – a mythical forest with strange creatures with powers unheard of in the wizarding world. There's only one account from it, in a mad person's diary… and we all discredited him. But…"

Hermione, seeing his faltering, took off from him with a shaky breath, glancing around even as the others drew in closer with fear, wondering what was so dangerous about the Bëlvingær. "But… this is an anti-magic zone… no one can use magic here, or they – they–"

She stifled a frightened little noise, and Ron drew her close, freckles standing out against pale skin. It was as if her words had drawn an epiphany from the rest of them, for there was a scramble to find their belongings, a scrambling to find their beloved wands still in their pockets. But it was unfortunate they could not use them, and nothing else had come with them on their fateful journey to a magic-hostile land, except for their robes which they carried upon them and the sweets they had kept in their pockets.

It was Harry, who had been unofficially elected as a leader even by the unsociable Slytherin, who took a course of action and placed his wand on the ground. He knew they were not to use magic, even the littlest lumos, but the temptation to just spark up his wand in a call for help could become too great, so he relieved himself of what magic he could possess. It was obvious to the eight of them, even to poor Neville who held onto his hopes like a crab on its prey, that without magic it was unlikely anyone could have found them, for they were in a mythical place almost no one believed in, and now their greatest need was to survive. "We have to take inventory of what we have. Place your wands here and sort out the rest."

No one argued, though Draco glared at him for his obvious leadership, but he knew as well that Harry knew what he was doing, so followed obediently, though without conciliation. Eight wands were distributed among the grass in a clumped pile of sticks, varying in their shades of wood, and the others slowly began extracting what they had. They knew they could not hide anything from each other, for who knew if what they concealed was needed, but sometimes they drew a wary glance when they saw something unlikely being revealed and glanced twice when Harry drew from his forearm a carefully crafted dagger, glinting in the filtered light between the trees. But they knew he was important, and a hero could carry a weapon, for what else could he protect himself with, even with a crafty wand. And no one was surprised as Hermione sprayed several small bundles that enlarged to be bundles of books when tapped, though Ron gave her an exasperated glance despite the situation. The only Slytherin among them carefully tapped his own potion's kit and placed a quill and, oddly, a large blank book with over three inches of blank pages in his own pile along with several ink bottles. Neville, of course, extracted several dried herbs and plants, even a packet of seeds which he had cultivated over the summer. Ron, with a half-hearted look of sorrow toward them, handed Harry his ever shrinking bag of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes and numerous candy. It would last them until they found further food.

It was, however, the three others that surprised Harry. Dean, of course, extracted his carrying case of artistic talents, but he also drew a battered teddy-bear with an eye missing and clumps of brown fur torn out, which snickers erupted among the rest; but he stoutly placed it in his pile and glared a the rest with a unusual defiance. The snickers ceased, and Lisa Turpin released her hold on her possessions, which included a few small portable reference books and strangely, "A Guide to Mythological Systems and Residences, _Portable_" by Erwin Hyde. Perhaps it would contain information on the Bëlvingær, or perhaps not. Su Li unclasped from her neck a crystal dagger which, from a touch from her hand, split to form four gleaming steel-tipped stars, which Harry (from glimpsing all the ninja movies Dudley liked to watch) could see they were throwing stars, which definitely could come in useful.

Now they saw their inventory, and knew they were to confiscate their wands, so in a silent appraisal gathered their wands and placed them back in their pockets, while replacing their possessions, except for the dagger and stars. With their mind slightly more prepared to face the danger of this unknown adversary, the stranded turned to view their surroundings, glancing at the ethereality of the forest.

A river trickled past them with a silent bubbling against stones, the water clear and not but a foot deep, and the trees here were sweeping willows, trailing into the water with dark green leaves, and the firs were dancing above them in a breeze they could neither hear nor feel. The ground was pure grass, and the fir needles that scattered the grounds crinkled as they moved in a procession of wonder along the river, setting their priorities for a shelter. Strangely, as they tramped across even forest floor, they heard no birds or the rustle of animals; it was as though they had vanished into silence and the recesses of the trees. But there was the constant feel of being watched, as though the forest was sentient (which it very well could be), and luckily enough, after a mere half an hour of tiring walk, they came across an unusual sight.

It was the strangest sight, really – quite impossible if they had been in the muggle world – but they were in the Bëlvingær and perhaps it was quite possible. For there across the stream, its dead leaves trailing into the stream, was quite the largest tree any of the eight had ever come across. It lay on its side, dead and fossilized, and from what they could tell, hollow as well, as there was a hole protruding from the end of its great roots, and the dirt strewn across its surface quite clean, but that was not what they were looking at. The large tree was as wide as two fully-grown men head to toe, and to eight stranded adolescents, it stretched on beyond their sight though it couldn't have been more than sixty metres in length.

They approached it cautiously, wondering if it was safe to explore the hollowness of it at the end of its roots, and fully noticed the strangeness in which it would have seemed to someone more experienced in plants, such as Neville. "It's not possible," his voice whispered. "It's entirely fossilized, solid stone… But how? It should have at least decomposed…"

No one knew what to make of his speech save Hermione, and she frowned, stepping toward the tree. A branch snapped, and they all froze instinctively. But nothing came at them and it was silent, more silent than even the Forbidden Forest, and they were scared of the forest's silence more than the whispering of the trees, for it seemed as though nothing lived within the forest except flora and fish.


End file.
